20: Rolvaag
July 13, 6:30 A.M.
MCFARLANE STIRRED in the predawn darkness of his stateroom. The bedsheets were twisted around hum in a cyclone of linen, and the pillow beneath his head was heavy with sweat. He rolled over, still half asleep, instinctively reaching for Malou's comforting warmth. But save for himself, the berth was empty.
He sat up and waited for his pounding heart to find its normal rhythm as the disconnected images of a nightmar—a ship, tossed on a stormy sea—receded from his mind. As he passed a hand across his eyes, he realized that not everything had been a dream: the motion of the water was still with him. The ship's movement had changed; instead of the usual gentle roll, it felt shuddery and rough. Throwing aside the sheets, he walked to the window and pulled the curtain back. Sleet splattered against the Plexiglas, and there was a thick coating of ice along its lower edge.
The dark set of rooms seemed oppressive and he dressed hurriedly, eager for fresh air despite the nasty conditions. As he trotted down the two flights of stairs to the maindeck, the ship rolled and he was forced to steady himself on the railing for support.
As he opened the door leading out of the superstructure a blast of icy wind buffeted his face. It was bracing, and it drove the last vestiges of the nightmare from his mind. In the half-light he could see the windward vents, davits, and containers plastered with ice, the deck awash in slush. McFarlane could now hear clearly the boom of a heavy sea running the length of the ship. Out here, the roll of the vessel was more pronounced. The dark, moiling seas were periodically whitened with great combing waves, the faint hiss of the breaking water coming to his ears over the moaning of the wind.
Someone was leaning up against the starboard railing, head sunk forward. As he approached, he saw it was Amira, bundled once again in the ridiculously oversized parka. "What are you doing here?" he asked.
She turned toward him. Deep within the furred hood of the parka, he made out a green-tinged face. A few tendrils of black hair escaped, whipped back by the wind.
"Trying to puke," she said. "What's your excuse?"
"Couldn't sleep."
Amira nodded. "I'm hoping that destroyer comes by again. I'd like nothing better than to unload the contents of my stomach on that ugly little comandante."
McFarlane did not answer. The encounter with the Chilean vessel, and speculation about Comandante Vallenar and his motives, had dominated dinner-table talk the previous night. And Lloyd, when he heard of the incident, had become frantic. Only Glinn seemed unconcerned.
"Will you look at this?" Amira said. Following her gaze, McFarlane saw the dark form of a jogger, clad only in gray warm-ups, making its way along the port rail. As he stared, he realized it was Sally Britton.
"Only she would be man enough to go jogging in this weather," Amira said sourly.
"She's pretty tough."
"More like crazy." Amira snickered. "Look at that sweatshirt bouncing around."
McFarlane, who had been looking at it, said nothing.
"Don't get me wrong. I take a purely scientific interest. I'm thinking how one would calculate an equation of state for those rather impressive breasts."
"An equation of state?"
"It's something we physicists do. It relates all the physical properties of an object—temperature, pressure, density, elasticity—"
"I get the picture."
"Look," Amira said, abruptly changing the subject. "There's another wreck."
In the bleak winter distance, McFarlane could see the outline of a large ship, its back broken on a rock.
"What is that, four?" Amira asked.
"Five, I think." As the Rolvaag headed south from Puerto Williams toward Cape Horn, the sightings of giant shipwrecks had grown more frequent. Some were almost as large as the Rolvaag. The area was a veritable graveyard of shipping, and the sight no longer brought any surprise.
Britton had by now rounded the bow and was heading in their direction.
"Here she comes," said Amira.
As Britton drew up to them, she slowed, jogging in place. Britton's warm-up suit was damp with sleet and rain, and it clung to her body. Equation of state, McFarlane thought to himself.
"I wanted to let you know that, at nine o'clock, I'm going to issue a deck safety-harness order," she said.
"Why's that?" McFarlane asked.
"A squall is coming."
"Coming?" Amira said with a bleak laugh. "It looks like it's already here."
"As we head out of the lee of Isla Navarino, we're going to be heading into a gale. Nobody will be allowed on deck without a harness." Britton had answered Amira's question, but she was looking at McFarlane.
"Thanks for the warning," McFarlane said. Britton nodded to him, then jogged away. In a minute she was gone.
"What is it you have against her?" McFarlane said.
Amira was silent a moment. "Something about Britton bugs me. She's too perfect."
"I think that's what they call an air of command."
"And it seemed so unfair, the whole ship suffering because of her booze problem."
"It was Glinn's decision," said McFarlane.
After a moment, Amira sighed and shook her head. "Yeah, that's vintage Eli, isn't it? You can bet there's an unbroken line of impeccable logic leading up to that decision. He just hasn't told anybody what it is."
McFarlane shivered under a fresh blast of wind. "Well, I've had enough sea air to last awhile. Shall we get some breakfast?"
Amira let out a groan. "You go ahead, I'll wait here awhile longer. Sooner or later, something's bound to come up."
* * *
After breakfast, McFarlane headed to the ship's library, where Glinn had asked to meet him. The library, like everything about the vessel, was large. Windows, streaked with sleet, covered one wall. Beyond and far below, he could see snow driving almost horizontally, whirling into the black water.
The shelves contained a wide assortment of books: nautical texts and treatises, encyclopedias, Reader's Digest condensations, forgotten best-sellers. He browsed through them, waiting for Glinn, feeling unsettled. The closer they got to Isla Desolación—to the spot where Masangkay died—the more restless he became. They were very close now. Today, they would round the Horn and anchor in the Horn Islands at last.
McFarlane's fingers stopped at the slender volume: The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym of Nantucket. This was the Edgar Allan Poe title Britton mentioned at dinner that first night at sea. Curious, he took it to the nearest sofa. The dark leather felt slippery as he settled into it and cracked the book. The pleasant smell of buckram and old paper rose to his nostrils.
My name is Arthur Gordon Pym. My father was a respectable trader in sea stores at Nantucket, where I was born. My maternal grandfather was an attorney in good practice. He was fortunate in everything, and had speculated very successfully in stocks of the Edgarton New-Bank, as it was formerly called.
This was a disappointingly dry beginning, and it was with relief that he saw the door open and Glinn enter. Behind him followed Puppup, ducking and smiling, barely recognizable from the drunk they had brought on board the previous afternoon. His long gray hair was braided back from his forehead, and the neatly groomed but still wispy mustache drooped from his pendulous lip.
"Sorry to have kept you waiting," Glinn said. "I've been speaking to Mr. Puppup. He seems content to assist us." Puppup grinned and shook hands all around again. McFarlane found his hand curiously cool and dry.
"Come to the windows," Glinn said. McFarlane strolled over and gazed out. Through the torn and roiling mists he could now make out, to the northeast, a barren island rising from the water, little more than the jagged top of a drowned mountain, white surf clawing and leaping at its base.
"That," murmured Glinn, "is Isla Barnevelt."
A distant squall line passed, like the drawing of a curtain from the storm-wracked horizon. Another island came into view: black, rugged, its mountainous heights whirling with snow and fog.
"And that is Isla Deceit. The easternmost of the Cape Horn islands."
Beyond it, the fresh light exposed another wilderness of drowned mountaintops poking from the sea. As they watched, the light was extinguished as quickly as it had come. Midnight seemed to close around the vessel, and another squall struck them full on, its fury battering the windows, hail rattling off the ship like machine gun fire. McFarlane felt the big ship lean.
Glinn withdrew a folded piece of paper. "I received this message half an hour ago." He handed it to McFarlane.
McFarlane unfolded it curiously. It was a brief cable: On no account are you to make landfall on the target island without further instructions from me. Lloyd.
McFarlane handed it back to Glinn, who returned it to his pocket. "Lloyd's told me nothing about his plans. What do you think it means? And why not simply telephone or e-mail?"
"Because he may not be near a telephone." Glinn drew himself up. "The view from the bridge is even nicer. Care to come along?"
Somehow, McFarlane did not think the EES head was interested in the view. He followed. Glinn was correct, however: from the bridge, the fury of the seas was even more awe-inspiring. Angry black waves broke and fought among themselves, and the wind worried at their tops and ran deep runnels through their troughs. As McFarlane watched, the Rolvaag's forecastle nodded downward into a massive sea, then struggled up again, sheets of seawater cascading from its flanks.
Britton turned toward them, her face spectral in the artificial glow. "I see you've brought the pilot," she said, glancing a little dubiously toward Puppup. "Once we round the Horn, we'll see what advice he can give us for the approach."
At her side, Victor Howell stirred. "There it is now," he said. Far ahead of the ship, a break in the storm threw a gleam of light upon a fissured crag, taller and darker than the others, rising from the frantic seas.
"Cabo de Hornos," said Glinn. "Cape Horn. But I've come about something else. We should expect a visitor momentarily—"
"Captain!" the third officer interrupted, bent over a screen. "The Slick 32 is picking up radar. I've got an air contact, approaching from the northeast."
"Bearing?"
"Zero four zero true, ma'am. Directly for us."
The air on the bridge grew tense. Victor Howell walked quickly to the third officer and peered over his shoulder at the screen.
"Range and speed?" Britton asked.
"Forty miles, and approaching at about one hundred and seventy knots, ma'am."
"Reconnaissance aircraft?"
Howell straightened up. "In this weather?"
A wild gust of wind sent rain rattling against the windows.
"Well, it sure isn't some hobbyist in a Cessna," Britton murmured. "Could it be a commercial aircraft, straying off course?"
"Unlikely. The only things that fly down here are chartered puddle jumpers. And they'd never be up in something like this."
Nobody answered. Except for the howl of the wind and the crash of the sea, the bridge remained completely silent for the space of a minute.
"Bearing?" the captain asked again, more quietly. "Still dead on, ma'am."
She nodded slowly. "Very well. Sound stations, Mr. Howell."
Suddenly, the communications officer, Banks, leaned out of the radio room. "That bird out there? It's a Lloyd Holdings helicopter."
"Are you sure?" Britton asked.
"I've verified the call sign." "Mr. Banks, contact that chopper."
Glinn cleared his throat. As McFarlane watched, he replaced the folded sheet into his jacket. Throughout the sudden excitement he had shown neither alarm nor surprise. "I think," he said quietly, "you had better prepare a landing area."
The captain stared at him. "In this weather?"
Banks stepped back out of the radio room. "They're requesting permission to land, ma'am."
"I don't believe it," Howell cried. "We're in the middle of a Force 8 gale."
"I don't believe you have a choice," Glinn said.
* * *
Over the next ten minutes, there was an explosion of activity as preparations were made for a landing. When McFarlane arrived at the hatchway leading out onto the fantail, Glinn at his side, a stern-looking crewman wordlessly issued them safety harnesses. McFarlane tugged the bulky thing on and snapped it into place. The crewman gave it a quick tug, grunted his approval, then undogged the hatch.
As McFarlane stepped through, the blast of wind threatened to carry him over the railing. With an effort, he snapped his harness to the external railing and moved toward the landing pad. Crewmen were stationed along the deck, their harnesses securely strapped to the metal railings. Even though the ship had throttled back her engines to just enough power to claw a steerageway through the seas, the deck pitched. A dozen flares were snapped on and placed around the perimeter, fitful sprays of crimson against the driving sleet and snow.
"There it is!" somebody cried.
McFarlane squinted into the storm. In the distance, the huge form of a Chinook helicopter hung in the air, running lights glowing. As he watched, the helicopter approached, yawing from left to right as gusts of wind hit it. An alarm suddenly screamed nearby, and a series of orange warning lights lit up the Rolvaag's superstructure. McFarlane could hear the beat of the chopper's engines straining against the fury of the storm. Howell shouted directions through a bullhorn even as he kept the radio plastered to his face.
Now the chopper was banking into hover position. McFarlane could see the pilot in the nose, struggling with the controls. The sleet pelted them with the redoubled blast from the blades. The chopper's belly bucked from side to side as it gingerly approached the swaying deck. A violent gust sent it shearing to one side, and the pilot quickly banked away, coming around for a second attempt. There was a desperate moment where McFarlane felt sure the pilot would lose control, but then its tires settled onto the pad and crewmen rushed to place wooden chocks beneath its wheels. The cargo door rolled open. A flurry of men, women, machines, and equipment tumbled out.
And then McFarlane saw the unmistakable figure of Lloyd drop to the wet surface of the pad, larger than life in foul-weather gear and boots. He jogged from the underside of the aircraft, the sou'wester on his head whipping back in the storm. Catching sight of McFarlane and Glinn, he gave an enthusiastic wave. A crewman raced to secure a safety belt and harness to him, but Lloyd motioned him away. He walked up, wiping the rain from his face, and grasped McFarlane and Glinn by the hands.
"Gentlemen," he boomed over the storm, a huge smile on his face. "The coffee's on me."
21: Rolvaag
11:15 A.M.
GLANCING AT his watch, McFarlane entered the elevator and punched a button for the middle bridge deck. He'd passed this empty deck many times, wondering why Glinn had always kept it off-limits. Now, as the elevator rose smoothly, he realized what it had been reserved for. It was as if Glinn had known all along that Lloyd would be dropping in.
The elevator doors opened to a scene of frantic activity: the ringing of phones, the whirr of faxes and printers, and the bustle of people. There were several secretaries at desks ranged along one wall, men and women taking calls, typing at workstations, scuttling about on Lloyd Holdings business.
A man in a light-colored suit approached him, threading his way through the hubbub. McFarlane recognized the oversized ears, drooping mouth, and fat pursed lips as belonging to Penfold, Lloyd's personal assistant. Penfold never seemed to walk toward anything, but instead approached from an angle, as if a direct approach would be too brazen.
"Dr. McFarlane?" Penfold said in his high, nervous voice. "This way, please."
He led McFarlane through a door, down a corridor, and into a small sitting room, with black leather sofas arranged around a glass- and gold-leafed table. A door opened into yet another office, and from it McFarlane could hear Lloyd's basso profundo voice.
"Please sit down," said Penfold. "Mr. Lloyd will be with you shortly." He vanished, and McFarlane settled ba
ck into the creaking leather sofa. There was a wall of television sets tuned to various news channels from around the world. The latest magazines lay on the table: Scientific American, the New Yorker, and the New Republic. McFarlane picked one up, began flipping through it absently, then put it down again. Why had Lloyd come down so abruptly? Had something gone wrong?
"Sam!" Looking up, he saw the huge man standing in the doorway, filling it with his bulk, radiating power, good humor, and boundless self-confidence.
McFarlane rose. Lloyd moved toward him, beaming, arms outstretched. "Sam, it's fine to see you again." He squeezed McFarlane's shoulders between his beefy palms and examined him, still gripping his shoulders. "I can't tell you how exciting it is to be here. Come in."
McFarlane followed Lloyd's broad back, beautifully draped in Valentino. Lloyd's inner office was spare: a row of windows, the cold light of the Antarctic regions flooding in, two simple wing chairs, a desk with a phone, a laptop computer—and two wineglasses beside a freshly opened bottle of Chateau Margaux.
Lloyd gestured at the wine. "Care for a glass?"
McFarlane grinned, and nodded. Lloyd poured the ruby liquid into a glass, filling another for himself. He settled his bulk into a chair, and held his glass up. "Cheers."
They clinked and McFarlane sipped the exquisite wine. He wasn't much of a connoisseur, but even the grossest palate could appreciate this.
"I hate Glinn's habit of keeping me in the dark," Lloyd said. "Why wasn't I told about this being a dry ship, Sam? Or about Britton's history? I can't fathom Glinn's thinking on this one. He should have briefed me back in Elizabeth. Thank God there's been no problem."
"She's an excellent captain," McFarlane said. "She's handled the ship with great skill. Knows it inside and out. Crew respects the hell out of her. Doesn't take guff from anybody, either."
The Ice Limit Page 14